


To Look, To Wonder

by imogenbynight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drifter!Dean, Hitchhiker!Castiel, Human Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean lacks direction, Castiel is on the run. A chance meeting on an empty stretch of highway in Nevada might be exactly what they both need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nevada

The tick in the engine starts when he crosses the state line into Nevada.

He pulls over and checks the oil. The lifters. Everything. But it's a rhythm impossible to locate, and after staring under the hood for a good thirty minutes Dean gives up and drives on to Wadsworth. By the time he arrives in the town proper he's eight clicks away from losing his mind.

Food, he's hoping, will take the edge off.

There's a burger joint on the edge of town that he's been daydreaming about for a decade—one that he stopped at on the way to a job with his dad when he was nineteen—and now, as he puts the ticking out of his thoughts and turns down a dusty sidestreet, he's glad to see that despite it's crumbling facade, it's still in business.

There's a grubby-faced kid sitting by a payphone outside, scratching a drawing of a dog into the cement base with a soft red rock.

She sniffs loudly as he walks toward the door, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand before returning to her masterpiece. When Dean reaches the diner the girls father shouts for her from a corner store a little ways up the street, and she scrambles to her feet, sneakers slapping on the short stretch of pavement. She reminds Dean of himself in a roundabout kind of way.

Slouching and filthy but alert in an instant when her dad called.

To say his father messed him up would be a massive understatement, and even now, two years since his heart gave out, Dean's memories of him are twisted and painful. There's love there, of course. He knows the guy did the best he could in shitty circumstances. But the fact remains that his choices—and they were choices, Dean knows that now, he _always_ had a choice—robbed Dean of a childhood, of a home, of any sense of security for the first twenty years of his life.

So he loves his dad but he hates him, too. Sometimes he isn't sure which is the dominant feeling.

He watches the kid run up the street and hopes her own old man is better than his was.

The moment he steps through the squeaky door of Ray's, Dean has a laminated menu thrust into his hands by a gray-haired woman in a yellow dress. Inside it smells like salt and grease and vanilla milkshakes. He slips a little when his heel finds a greasy patch on the speckled linoleum.

There are a few people scattered among the tables. A trio of teenagers laughing; a middle-aged woman cutting a burger into tiny pieces for her small son; a tired looking man in an overcoat staring resolutely at a newspaper.

Dean glances at them all as he walks past but doesn't make eye contact, sinking into a booth in the back, facing the door out of habit. It's another ingrained practice from all those years spent with his paranoid father, chasing leads that lead nowhere.

He places his order with the overzealous woman from the door. Babs, according to the cursive on her name tag.

The words “double-cheese with extra pickles, side of fries, and a cherry coke,” are the first he's said aloud all day. Babs doesn't write any of it down. Just tells him it'll be out in a flash, and disappears through the swinging doors into the kitchen, repeating his order to the cook before bringing him his drink.

For a while, Dean just leans back in his vinyl-cushioned seat and tries not to think.

He takes a sip. Crunches an ice cube between his back teeth. Stares out the front window to the view of the phone booth and a vacant lot and an accountant's office across the street. Few cars pass. The ice melts in his coke. Condensation beads on the glass, dripping down around the base and making a ring on the table that he swipes away with his hand before wiping it on his jeans.

At the same moment the waitress walks out of the kitchen to bring Dean his meal, the man in the overcoat rises to leave, and they almost collide.

His apology is a low rumble Dean can't translate through the distance, and he watches as he slides a few notes over onto the table and leaves, hands pushed deep into his pockets. He seems like he should be slouching, in a coat like that in this weather. He stands tall, though. Walks with purpose.

The man's newspaper remains on the table, pinned down by a cup of filter coffee. Dean is still staring at it when a plate is deposited in front of him with a clatter.

“Thanks,” he says, and Babs flashes him a smile before heading back into the kitchen.

When Dean sinks his teeth into the burger it doesn't taste anywhere near as good as he remembers. Not a huge surprise, really. He eats the whole thing anyway, finishes off the fries, wipes his greasy fingers on the blue napkin, and heads outside.

The man in the overcoat is standing at a bus stop beside what passes for a parking lot here, and he looks up as Dean passes. He's tan, a little scruffy looking, and there's something about his solemn blue eyes that makes Dean want to stop for a moment. Talk to him, maybe. Just the fact that he actually wants to talk to someone is enough to give him pause, but this is a small town, and he knows better than to start chatting up strange men in a place like this. So Dean just half smiles in greeting. Nods. Keeps walking.

In the dusty air of the parking lot he thinks of his parents in the ground in Lawrence and his brother in college on the coast.

He looks to the west.

Holds his hand over his eyes, sheilding them from the glare, and just stares out over the browned grass and rock that extends into the distance, a few old houses sticking up here and there. _Wonder what Sammy's doing_ , he thinks, squinting, and lowers his hand. Scrubs it over his face before he unlocks the car.

There's still close to an hour until sunset.

He climbs back behind the wheel and ignores the ticking, cranks up the volume and can't quite bring himself to sing along.

Five miles down the road the tape deck stops working.

The radio fades in and out, static and stuttered sound, and he switches it off completely. Drives in silence with only his thoughts and the ticking to keep him company.

He keeps going until he hits Fallon at dusk, and in the failing light he pulls into the unfinished parking lot of a tiny motel off just off the highway. Stones ping up against the undercarriage; dust rises in a cloud. He breathes it in when he steps outside, coughs and bats it away with his hand as he cuts across a patch of dry grass to book a room for the night.

The attendant has a gap between his front teeth and freckles on his worn face, his blond moustache streaked through with ginger. Dean thanks him as he takes the key, and wonders what it might be like to be on the other side of that desk. To be the stationary one for a change.

“Room six,” the attendant tells him in a voice like sandpaper, pointing to the left, and Dean nods. He'll drop the key off in the box in the morning. He'll never see this guy again. The thought comes unbidden, and Dean feels a pang of sadness. His life is a solitary one. He tries not to think of it.

He's been doing that a lot, lately.

The night is dry and hot, and the window in his room doesn't open. For eight hours he lays on sheets that smell of cheap detergent and barely sleeps.

 

* * *

The next morning he gets an early start. He tries again to fix the engine, but still can't locate the problem. The tape deck is shot all to hell. He gives up and drives with the distinct feeling that his car is falling apart. He thinks maybe he is, too.

Dean figure's he can probably make it to Sioux Falls in two days if the car keeps running. He doesn't want to stop at another garage if he can help it. He'd rather roll in to Bobby's lot and borrow his tools, drink beer in the cool shed while he finds the problem and fixes it himself. And it'd be good to see Bobby, too. It's been a while since he visited.

He's had no real destination in mind since he left Sam's new place, and it hits him again how little he has now. No home, no friends, no focus. There's nothing out here for him, and he's tired.

Sick of flitting around from town to town, stuck on the same track his dad put him on. It's a kind of hangover, he thinks, from a childhood spent on the road. Carted here and there until the old man had keeled over from a broken heart of a different kind, twenty-three years after Mary went, and then he kept on moving. Unable to settle even when he'd wanted to.

So maybe, he thinks, he could stay this time. Settle down in South Dakota for good, try to shake off the road dust and put down some roots. The thought makes his skin itch. Maybe that's a good thing.

The sun is barely up, but it's already getting hot, and as he drives he sees shimmering lines of heat over the asphalt in the distance. There's a stretch of road between Fallon and Austin with less traffic than nearly anywhere else in the country, and for close to an hour he doesn't see another soul.

Then, he does.

Rising from the asphalt with the heat, shimmering over the blacktop like a mirage, is a familiar overcoat.

He's shuffling, as though he's been walking a while, and as Dean pulls up alongside him he sees that the tan coat is scuffed and dirty; the man's dark hair matted to his forehead with sweat.

Dean leans across and winds down the passenger side window.

“Hey, buddy, you alright?” he calls out, and the man looks in at him through a squint.

His mouth is turned down at the edges as though he's assessing whether or not it's in his best interest to answer.

“Not particularly,” he replies, and Dean smirks because, yeah, he can kind of see that.

“You need a ride?”

“No, thank you.”

Dean looks down the road ahead, stretching on for miles and flanked by nothing but grassy flats and rocky earth. There's no trees for shade. Nothing.

“You sure?” he asks, “Austin is another fifty miles away.”

The man chews his lip, squinting into the sun.

“I can call someone for you?” Dean offers, digging his cell from his pocket and wriggling it in the air, “it's too far for you to walk, man. Especially in this heat.”

“That's okay,” he says, straightening up.

Frowning, Dean sits back up and watches as the man starts walking away, heading down the side of the road.

“Suit yourself,” he mutters, and shifts back into drive, pulling away. He's been driving for maybe five minutes when the ticking gets louder, faster, and something under the hood clunks loudly.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Dean groans, pulling over onto the shoulder and shutting off the engine.

He pops the hood and steps back, waiting for it to cool down enough for him to check it out. Climbing into the passenger seat, he checks his phone and pulls a face at the NO SIGNAL that appears in the top left corner before grabbing his worn copy of Cat's Cradle from the glove compartment and flipping through the pages.

“Looks like you need help, now,” a voice says fifteen minutes later, and Dean glances up from the book he's not really reading to see the guy in the overcoat a few paces away. Only now the overcoat is gone, folded over his arm along with a black suit jacket. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to the elbow, and he looks tired. Sun baked and weary, squinting in the light.

“I'm a mechanic,” Dean tells him, “I've got it covered.”

The man nods, looks up the road. Doesn't make any move to leave.

“I saw you,” Dean says, tossing the book onto the back seat, “back in Wadsworth. Two days ago?”

“I was there, yes.”

“You were waiting for a bus.”

“Yes. I got kicked off.”

“Why?”

The man opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it again, his lips pursed together.

“Never mind,” Dean tells him, and climbs out of the car, heading around the front to check on the engine now that it's had time to cool off, “none of my business.”

“There was oil,” the man says as Dean leans down under the hood.

“Hmm?”

“On the road,” the man says, pointing back west, “I noticed it after your pulled away. Maybe it's leaking.”

“I checked that already,” Dean says, but he still walks around the car to look behind it. There's a long, dark line running back up the road.

Grabbing a flashlight from the toolkit in the trunk, Dean gets down onto the ground, stones digging into his knees through his jeans, and peers under the car. The line of oil stops directly beneath the engine. Nothing is dripping, now.

When he checks the dipstick, it comes out mostly dry.

“Dammit,” he mutters.

In a few minutes, he's figured out the problem. The oil pump pickup tube has a crack at the join, and every time the engine is running oil is being pumped right out into the open. It's going to be a massive pain in the ass to fix, and until he can get to someplace with a garage, he's more than a little screwed.

Austin is still close to fifty miles away, but Fallon is further, and with no phone signal and the quiet of this road, he doesn't have much choice beyond refilling the oil tank and hoping for the best.

Once he's topped it up to the fill line, he wipes his hands onto his already stained tshirt and puts the oil can back in the trunk. The man is still standing nearby. Quiet. Thoughtful. _Cute_ , Dean thinks.

The sun is a lot higher, now, bearing down and making sweat bead along Dean's brow, and he wipes it away as he heads back toward the hood to close it. He hesitates.

“You want that lift, now?” he asks, and the man pushes out a loud breath through his nose, adjusting his coat on his arm and looking back up the road before his shoulders sink a little.

“I... yes. Thank you,” he says, “I think you were right about the heat.”

“Figured,” Dean says, sticking out a hand, “Dean.”

“Castiel,” he says, and his grip is firm.


	2. Roadside

On the floor of the passenger side, there's a bottle of water that's been rolling around since he left California. The label is half scraped off and scuffed from Sam's boots, but it's unopened, so when Dean takes his book from the seat to put it back in the glove compartment, he grabs it. Holds it out toward Castiel where he waits in the roadside dust.

“It's probably warm and gross, but I'm guessin' you're thirsty.”

After a few seconds of hesitation, Castiel accepts the bottle. He shakes it before he twists off the cap. It's empty by the time Dean pulls open the driver's side door.

“Better?”

Castiel nods, catching his breath as he climbs into the car and shoves the bottle down between his feet. The thin plastic crinkles.

“Much," he says, wiping water from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand, "thank you."

Waving off his gratitude, Dean turns the key, checking the rear view more out of habit than any real concern that there might be any traffic to merge into. Lucky, too--there's an eighteen wheeler approaching. Of course.

"Typical," he says, waiting for it to pass, "not a single person on the whole damn road until I want to get back onto it."

“Actually, there was another car a little ahead of you. The driver offered me a ride, but he required payment.”

“Seriously?” Dean says, raising his brow as the truck roars by, “what an asshole.”

“That was my impression, yes. To be honest, it's why I was reluctant to accept your offer at first.”

“I do give off an asshole-ish vibe, I guess,” Dean allows, finally pulling out onto the road, and Castiel huffs out a low laugh.

“I should apologize for judging you too quickly. It was rude of me.”

“Don't sweat it,” Dean tells him, “I've hitched a few times. You gotta look out for yourself.”

"For what it's worth, my opinion of you is now based on your actual personality."

Nodding, Dean chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before glancing over with a smirk.

"Not an asshole?" he clarifies, and feels his chest warm at the sight of crinkles around Castiel's eyes when he smiles back.

"Not an asshole," he agrees, and the word falls strangely from his mouth. As though he's not used to the shape of it. As though cursing is a foreign thing he's unaccustomed to. Dean can't help but wonder why.

They've been driving maybe ten minutes, silent but for the rolling tyres and ever-present ticking, when Dean shifts in his seat. He feels like he should explain the lack of music. He's so used to having a soundtrack to his driving that the quiet is disconcerting, and something about Castiel compels him to explain himself. Makes him want Castiel to know him. To see him as he really is.

“I'd put on some tunes, but the, uh... the tape deck is busted,” he says, gesturing toward the dashboard, and Castiel turns to look at him, “and there's no decent radio signal out here, so...”

“I don't mind,” Castiel tells him, and drumming his fingers over the wheel, Dean hums in reply.

"Probably for the best," Dean goes on, "I'd drive you nuts singing along to Sabbath."

"Oh," Castiel says, his eyebrows lifting, "You didn't strike me as particularly pious."

Dean laughs before he realizes Castiel is serious.

"No, dude. Sabbath. Black Sabbath?"

Castiel shakes his head.

"Seriously?" Dean says, and has to force himself to look back at the road, "how... how old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

"And you don't know Black Sabbath?"

"I've had... I... I've been..."

Castiel appears nervous, suddenly, his throat twitching as he swallows, tries to think of a response, and Dean can't stand it.

"Hey, sorry," he says, "No big. We all have blank spots, right?"

Castiel looks unconvinced. Dean casts around for something to reassure him.

"You know I only just learned last year that carrots used to be purple?"

"What?"

"True facts," Dean nods, "they made them orange."

"Who did?"

"Y'know," Dean says vaguely, waving one hand in the air before scratching his chin, "them. Whoever does stuff. I don't know." He frowns to himself, returning both hands to the wheel. “Where are you trying to get to, anyway?”

Castiel shrugs, staring out at the passing flats, cracked and dry under the harsh desert sun.

“Nowhere,” he says eventually, “anywhere.”

Dean wants to ask what happened to him back on that bus out of Wadsworth. Why he's running in the first place. What he's running from. But he knows that sometimes it's not that simple. Sometimes you just need to keep moving until the noise rushing in your blood stops, calms, settles.

So instead of asking, he just nods, looking ahead as the road unfolds.

“Yeah,” he says, “me too.”

They arrive in Austin in nearly three times the amount of time it should have taken, slowed by having to stop to check the oil levels twice to avoid damaging the engine too badly. Still, Dean finds himself calm. Content, even. Castiel is good company, if a little quiet, and Dean's been glad to have him in the passenger seat.

Austin is a tiny town of less than two hundred, and just after they pass the welcome sign Dean is relieved to see a mechanic a little ways down the main road. He heads directly for it as the ticking turns to clunking, rattling, shaking.

“C'mon, baby, just a little bit further,” he says to the car, petting the steering wheel soothingly. He can feel Castiel looking at him like he thinks he's lost his mind, but he ignores it. When they reach the garage without incident, he breathes a sigh of relief, "that's my girl."

When he climbs out of the car the air is thin and dry, the heat oppressive, and Dean wonders what would have happened to Castiel if he hadn't picked him up. How much further he'd have made it before the heat became too much. Looking over the roof of the Impala, Dean sees him shrugging back into his coat and feels a wave of disappointment. He ignores it. This is just par for the course; meet someone, talk a little, move on.

“You gonna keep moving?” he asks, and Castiel nods, squinting in the sun as he looks up the street toward a truck stop.

“Yes,” Castiel says, as though any other answer would make no sense, “thank you for the ride.”

“Yeah, man, no problem. Good luck out there.”

Castiel nods in farewell. Dean watches him go before he heads inside.

In the cramped office with it's humming fluorescents and just-shy-of-pornographic calendar—outdated by four months—Dean tries to convince the mechanic, Rob, to let him do the work himself. Unsurprisingly, he's met with a firm shake of the head.

“Not worth the trouble if somethin' goes wrong,” Rob tells him, and from his tone Dean can tell there's not going to be any chance of swaying him.

After taking a look, Rob confirms what Dean already knew. The pickup tube needs to be replaced.

“I got a buddy over in Reno,” he says, scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard and leaving a smudge of grease behind, “might have the kind we're lookin' for.”

While Dean waits, he heads back into the office to make the call. When he returns it's to tell Dean it'll be tomorrow before the part will arrive; the car will be ready the day after that.

“There's a motel a little further up,” Rob tells him, pointing along the road, and Dean thanks him for his help.

Casting a baleful look at the Impala, he hoists his duffel up on his shoulder.

“Look after her,” he says, and Rob clicks his tongue, taking the keys.

“Car like this ain't getting nothin' but the royal treatment, believe you me.”

***

He spends a few hours that afternoon at the saloon opposite the motel, shooting pool and eating peanuts, and when he checks in to the motel he finds Taxi Driver on TV. Travis Bickle is having a meltdown. Dean settles down on the bed, beer in hand, and watches until his vision starts to blur.

He's asleep by ten in the evening, exhausted from the previous nights lack of rest, and doesn't wake until close to noon the next day.

It's more than he's slept in weeks. Maybe that's why he feels so groggy.

He stays under the weak spray of the motel shower for too long, not even washing, just letting the hot water run down over his head until it starts to cool.

The towel is scratchy and faded. He stands naked in the middle of the room for a while, the towel in his hands, and wonders what exactly he's going to do when he leaves here. The thought of going to South Dakota, of turning up at Bobby's house with no real plans and a visible sadness hanging over his head makes his stomach turn. His uncle wouldn't turn him away. That's part of the reason he's wondering whether he should go after all.

Without the excuse of wanting to work on the Impala, he's not sure what to tell his uncle. He's too young for a mid life crisis, and yet here he is. Naked at half past twelve on a Monday afternoon in a shitty motel with no plan, no prospects, no purpose.

Staring up at the painting over the bed--a buffalo, grazing alone on brown grass--he waits for the feeling to pass. Or for feeling to come back. One or the other.

"I should get dressed," he says aloud to the painting, and eventually, he does. Wanders over to the saloon he'd spent the past afternoon in and avoids talking to the locals. He just doesn't have the energy.

 

***

 

He's been driving nearly six hours, having left Austin as soon as he'd been able to pick up the Impala, and though it's well into the afternoon he still hasn't eaten. Hasn't really been able to convince himself that he has the appetite, despite knowing he hasn't eaten since yesterday.

A sign announcing the exit for Morgan flashes by, and again he thinks about stopping. Hungry or not, he knows he really should eat something. He's still considering it when he notices someone ahead, sitting on the sloping dry grass at the edge of the interstate. A man in a familiar coat. Dean's stomach flips, and he thinks, _maybe company is what I need._

As Dean gets nearer, he sees Castiel pull off his shoe, shake it, look inside, and put it back on. He's still re-tying the laces when Dean pulls to a stop in the emergency lane.

“Fancy seein' you here,” Dean says through the open window, and Castiel makes a low huffing sound that might be a laugh as he pushes to his feet.

“The ticking has stopped,” Castiel observes, gesturing toward the engine, “I take it they were able to fix the leak?”

“Yeah,” Dean grins, “she's all patched up. Tape deck's workin', too.”

Castiel nods, looking down the road.

“So,” Dean says, “you heading to Morgan?”

“I don't know,” Castiel admits, and that's good enough for Dean.

“Jump in,” he says before he loses his nerve, “you can decide on the way.”

 

***

 

Two blocks into the main stretch of town, Dean sees a parking space outside a florist and pulls in. Shuts off the engine and looks across to see Castiel peering along the road behind them. When he opens the door, the smell of lilies rolls inside.

“You hungry?” Dean asks, and Castiel looks back at him. Sticks his hands in his pockets and frowns for a moment before he speaks.

“Yes.”

“Let's grab a bite,” Dean says, pointing toward a greasy spoon a few stores down, and Castiel follows when he walks there. Dean holds open the door.

The interior is almost entirely covered in pine panelling, and when nobody offers them a table they take the first one they see. Dean orders an everything burger and a coke; Castiel orders a side salad and a glass of water. Dean doesn't comment. If the guy wants to eat like a rabbit that's his own business.

As soon as the food is brought out, Dean realizes he's actually starving. He eats too fast, at first, and catches Castiel staring at him. He makes himself slow down. Wipes ketchup from the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“So,” Dean says, picking at his fries when he'd rather shove them into his mouth five at a time, “I'm probably gonna keep heading east after this.”

“Oh?”

“I've got an uncle over in South Dakota. Thought I might pay him a visit. Or not. Hadn't really decided yet.”

Castiel prods at his salad with his fork and doesn't say anything.

“You know anyone out that way?” Dean asks, and Castiel looks up from his food, “it's just... if you need a ride further along, I could use the company. Up to you.”

Peeling the skin off a slice of tomato and laying it on the edge of his plate, Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek, deliberating. Dean feels like he's holding his breath, waiting for something life changing. It's ridiculous. He doesn't know this guy from Adam.

Still, when Castiel looks up, meets Dean's eyes and tells him, “I'd like that, thank you,” Dean feels a little bit like he's won a million bucks. He beams involuntarily, feeling his cheeks rise without his permission, and the reaction is so much more than it should be that he's immediately embarrassed. The smile won't go away, though.

“Good,” Dean says, nodding and clearing his throat as he picks up what's left of his burger to distract himself from the mortifying blush that's spreading over his face, “gotta love a road trip.”

When he lets himself look across the table again, he finds Castiel smiling, too.

 

***  


They've been back on the road for three hours when Dean starts yawning, and though it's only five in the afternoon he's already on the verge of unconsciousness. The median lines are blurring.

“You want to take the wheel for a few hours?” he asks through another yawn, “kinda falling asleep over here.”

“I can't drive,” Castiel says, and Dean blinks at him, his mouth falling open.

“Seriously?”

There's a heavy pause when Castiel breathes in deeply, and when he replies Dean gets the feeling he was deciding whether or not to tell the truth.

“I was never permitted to get a license,” he says, turning his gaze back toward the passing flatlands.

Dean wants to ask who exactly didn't permit him to drive a car. Where he's running from. Who he's running from. He bites his tongue.

“You _want_ to get your licence?” he asks instead.

“I think so,” Castiel says.

“Then do it. Whoever told you you couldn't can fuck right off.”

A small smile cracks Castiel's features, and he looks down at his hands.

“Yes,” he says, “I suppose you're right.”

“Damn straight,” Dean says, adjusting his grip on the wheel, and they keep on going, driving on as the sun goes down.

Rawlins, Wyoming isn't nearly as small a town as Austin had been, but it's not exactly a thriving metropolis, either, and when they roll past the welcome sign forty minutes later Dean scans the roadside for any sign of a place to stay. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees a motel a block away. _Sleep_ has become his only thought.

“Alright,” he says, pulling in to the parking lot, “lets say we'll hit the road again at... nine? Or we can do later if you're a late sleeper. Just don't knock on my door before sun up and we'll be golden.”

“Nine sounds okay,” Castiel says, and they climb out of the car.

It's a run down little place with four rooms and a cluster of tumbleweeds butting at the office door, and Dean kicks them aside as opens it. He's halfway into the office when he realizes Castiel has stopped following him, and he turns to see him moving toward a bench by the parking lot, looking out at the road.

“Cas?”

Castiel stops to look at him.

“Aren't you gonna book a room?”

Castiel glances down at the ground, puts his hands in his pockets.

“No,” he says simply, and Dean suddenly remembers him with his glass of water and salad in the diner. The crumpled dollars and dusty coins he'd paid with, pulled from his pockets with little balls of lint. He's got not destination and he's got no bag. Dean mentally kicks himself for not figuring it out sooner. The guy is flat broke.

He resolutely ignores the voice in his head that says he could be a serial killer and holds the door wider.

“Come on,” he says, “I'll get a twin.”

 

 

 


	3. Change

When he opens the door to room three, the emphysemic rattle of an ancient AC unit rolls out into the parking lot, carrying with it the smell of stale cigarettes and mothballs. Pilled carpet the color of instant coffee stretches from wall to wallpapered wall. Scrunching his nose, Dean heads inside. He drops the orange-tabbed key on the table.

“Wow," he says, eyeing the dated decor, "this place looks like where the 70's came to die.”

Castiel, standing awkwardly in the doorway, lets out an amused huff at Dean's declaration. It's a quiet sound. Hesitant. Dean wonders if he'll ever make him laugh for real, and he's suddenly struck by the ardent desire to try.

He clears his throat. Sits heavily on the bed furthest from the door and starts pulling off his shoes.

“I'm gonna crash for a while,” he says.

“In that case I think I'll go read something,” Castiel tells him, pointing vaguely toward the rec room where the clerk told them there were books and table tennis by the communal laundry, “I doubt I'll be able to sleep for a while.”

“You mind hitting the light on your way out?”

Without another word, Castiel flips the switch and steps back outside, and Dean lays on his back and listens as his footfalls fade, slowly giving way to the constant rattle of the AC that's making the room feel like an ice box. He thinks about turning it off, but he’d need to get up, and the thought is exhausting. He wraps his arms around his middle, rolls onto his side, and closes his eyes.

He only means to doze for an hour or so, but when he wakes the illuminated digits on the bedside alarm clock tell him it's nearly nine o'clock. Blearily rubbing his eyes, he sits up and rubs at his goosebumped arms. It takes a few seconds for him to realize he's alone; a few more to remember why that’s surprising.

Islands of light line the walkway outside, and Dean yawns as he follows them to the hum of the rec room's fluorescents. He finds Castiel inside, sitting in a threadbare armchair with his legs folded underneath himself. In his hands, he holds a worn copy of some paperback romance novel. He looks up when Dean walks in.

“This book is terrible,” he says, and lowers the book to his lap.

“Yeah, well it's from the take-one-leave-one shelf in a motel rec room,” Dean points out, leaning on the doorframe, “not exactly a breeding ground for great literature.”

“I suppose,” Castiel agrees, eyeing the cover with a frown before leaning over to the shelf. He shoves the book into the gap he'd taken it from. When he looks back up, it occurs to Dean that he doesn’t actually have a good reason to have come out here beyond wondering where Castiel was. Wanting to see him.

Feeling more awkward than he has in years, Dean puffs out his cheeks and pushes out a loud breath as he casts around for something to say. Glancing back outside, he can see the familiar shape of a Domino's sign on the other side of the road, and his stomach rumbles. He rubs it absently.

“So, I think I'm gonna go pick up a pizza,” he says, still looking out at the sign.

“Alright.”

“You like pepperoni?”

“Oh,” Castiel sits up a little, swallows nervously, rubs his palms over his knees, “You don't—I mean, that's—I'm really not that hungry.”

“Cas,” Dean says, holding up his hand, “I might be kind of a glutton but I'm not gonna eat a whole pizza on my own. Pepperoni—yay or nay?”

Castiel pauses, still a little reluctant, before finally nodding.

“Yay,” he says, then, embarrassed, “I mean, yes, I think I... Yes. I like pepperoni.”

Before turning to leave, Dean grins and tosses him the room key. Castiel catches it easily.

 

* * *

 

When Dean returns to the room it's comfortably warm, and Castiel is sitting on the bed nearest the door, watching a documentary about bees with the beginning of a smile softening his features. He looks up at Dean and the smile is still there, small and weary. Dean's heart stutters in his chest at the sight.

 _That’s never a good sign_ , he thinks to himself.

It's one thing to think Castiel is attractive, and to appreciate his company, but feelings are a bad idea. Letting himself feel something is almost always a bad idea. Specifically, feeling something for someone who he's more than likely going to part ways with in a couple of days is a surefire way to send him into a downward spiral he doesn't think he'll be able to deal with on his own.

So, as casually as he can, he slides the pizza box onto the table and tells himself not to get attached.

“Dig in,” he says, grabbing a slice.

Settling into one of the rickety chairs, he sets his focus on the TV screen as he eats and learns that a honey bee can beat its wings up to 250 times per second. Castiel tells him during a commercial break that before, he was the one who kept the bees. He doesn't mention what he means by before, and Dean doesn't ask. There's no point. If he gets to know him too well, the not-getting-attached thing is only going to be more difficult, and it's hard enough already.

When the documentary ends, Dean flicks through the stations. _The Muppets Take Manhattan_ is twenty minutes in, and he's about to keep flipping when he sees Castiel lean forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes wide.

“You wanna watch this?” Dean asks, and Castiel looks over at him with a strange kind of brightness in his eyes.

“This is the last thing I saw at the cinema,” Castiel says.

Dean side eyes him and clicks the information button on the remote. _The Muppets Take Manhattan: released 1984._

“Dude,” he says, counting in his head, “that was... that was twenty-three years ago.”

“Yes.”

“You haven't been to the movies since 1984?”

Blanching, Castiel swallows visibly and shakes his head, but he doesn't elaborate. Dean bites down on the inside of his cheek.

“Alright,” he says, and puts the remote control back down.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Castiel sitting tensely. His back stiff, knee jumping a little as though he's afraid he might need to run. Dean tells himself not to ask questions, and eventually, Castiel's posture relaxes. He shuffles up on his own bed to watch the movie with his hands folded neatly over his stomach, and Dean exhales the breath he'd been unconciously holding.

Castiel nods off just as Kermit regains his memories, and Dean mutes the TV so as not to wake him. He looks peaceful. The perpetual worried furrow in his brow smooths out as he sinks further down against the lumpy motel pillow, and quietly as he can, Dean gets up and drapes one of the rooms spare blankets over him.

He feels a little weird about it, like maybe it's too personal, but he rationalizes by telling himself that the room is kind of drafty. The last thing a flat broke hitchhiker needs is to catch a cold he can't afford to take care of.

Avoiding any further thought on the matter, Dean settles back onto his own bed to watch the end of the movie with nothing but the slow rhythm of Castiel's breath as a soundtrack. So much for not getting attached, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in recent memory, Dean wakes feeling rested.

It's already after nine, and Castiel is still passed out in the other bed, his face lit up by the sun slanting through a gap in the curtains. The rest of him lies in shadow. Dean looks at him for a moment, breathing steady, before pushing out of bed. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and heads into the bathroom to shower, and when he emerges in a cloud of steam he finds Castiel standing by the bench next to the TV, attempting to figure out how to operate the ancient coffee machine.

“Don't bother with that thing,” Dean tells him, dumping his bathroom bag back into his duffel, “I need to stop for gas, anyway. We can get real coffee.”

Shifting on his feet, Castiel takes a steadying breath before he speaks.

“Dean, I don't have any money.”

“Yeah,” Dean says simply, “I'd noticed. It's no big deal.”

Tilting his head a little to the side, Castiel frowns. Dean just gives a half shrug as he crouches down to zip up his bag.

"Bathroom's all yours.”

It's half past ten by the time they leave, and they get as far as a gas station on the edge of town before things go to hell.

It's a run down Gas n' Sip, flanked on three sides by thick trees, and the attached roadhouse has a greasy aura that extends as far as the fuel pumps.

Dean is inside, holding a tray of two coffees and waiting for the clerk to hand him his receipt, when he glances out the sliding glass door. A dusty red pickup pulls up in front of the air pump, and while Dean watches a well dressed man climbs out. He closes the door, smooths the front of his suit pants, and starts walking toward the Impala. The passenger door flies open when he's about twenty feet away from it, and when Castiel bursts out, sprinting around the side of the gas station, the man breaks into a run.

Dean is running after them before he's had a second to think about it.

Coffee spills out onto his hand and he hisses at the sting, but he keeps running, rounding the edge of the building just as the man is reaching the rear. Castiel is nowhere to be seen, vanished somewhere in the trees, and Dean has no idea if he's still running. If he's stopped. If he's coming back.

“Hey!” Dean shouts, and the man turns, startled. “What do you want with Cas?”

The man's eyebrows raise infinitesimally before he glances at the two cups Dean is carrying. They're both half empty, now, and Dean tosses them into the dumpster by the wall.

“You're the one he's been traveling with?” the man asks.

 _Not exactly_ , Dean thinks, but it's near enough, so he nods, wiping his hand dry on his jeans. The man's jaw tenses.

“I'm his brother. Theo.”

Looking him over, taking in his heavy brow and narrow jaw, Dean can't really see the resemblance. Bullshit, he thinks.

“I've been searching for him since he left,” Theo goes on, glancing over his shoulder at the treeline, “our family is very worried.”

“Well, hate to break it to you, pal, but I don't think he wants to go back.”

“This doesn't concern you,” Theo tells him bluntly, turning back to the trees and stalking away.

At a loss for what to do, Dean stares after him. He's tempted to follow. To stick right on Theo's tail until they find Castiel, but what if he turns violent? Dean can hold his own in a fight, but he'd really rather not have to. He could call for help, but his cell is back in the car--which is still sitting unlocked by the fuel pump. That decides it. He'll go back, move the car into the parking lot, and head into the trees with his phone. If things get hairy, he'll call the cops.

But when he reaches the Impala, he finds Castiel inside, hunched down in the back seat. He glances up when Dean opens the door. Must have doubled back behind the roadhouse.

“I can't go back,” Castiel says quietly, eyes pleading and wide as Dean looks down at him, “please don't tell him I'm here. I can't.”

Dean barely pauses before he gets in the car. Only when they're out on the road does he speak again, glancing down over his shoulder to where Castiel is still trying to make himself invisible.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and Castiel heaves out a breath. Dean sees the top of his head move in a nod, and when he looks back at the road he can hear the sound of him shifting, trying to peer out the windows without being seen.

“He's not following,” Dean tells him, “I'll keep a look out, okay?”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, “I don't know how he found me.”

There's a weighted pause, and the radio stutters as they pass Rawlin's Peak, the mountain interfering with the signal. It's back again before Castiel continues, speaking over an advertisement for farm machinery.

“What did he say to you?”

Dean turns the volume down and checks the rear view again. There's nothing behind them but a rusted white Gremlin.

“Just that he was your brother, and that your family has been looking for you.”

“He's not my brother,” Castiel says, “they aren't my family.”

He doesn't say anything else for a long time, and Dean wonders if he should take him into the next town and tell him it's the end of the line. He probably should. It would be the smart thing to do, he knows. But he won't. Maybe he's only known this guy a couple of days, but whatever it is that he's running from, Dean's pretty sure he's not the one at fault. It's a feeling in his gut. Castiel is in trouble and he needs help. As Dean sees it, if he doesn't offer it nobody else is going to, so he drives on. Keeps one eye on the rear view mirror and, paranoid, takes a few random turns. Just in case.

Somehow, with all the extra turns, they end up going in the complete wrong direction for South Dakota.

When Dean spots a diner ahead at almost noon he figures it's about time they had something to eat. Castiel is still shaken and nervous and quiet, and whatever Theo had really wanted, Dean figures he isn't going to be able to talk about it until he's managed to calm down. If he's anything like Dean, food will help with that.

The car rattles over the corrugated asphalt of the parking lot as he pulls into a space.

When Castiel climbs out of the car, he picks up his coat, clutching it tightly as if he thinks he might need to run again. Dean doesn't comment, but when they get inside he takes the seat with his back to the door despite everything his dad ever drummed into him. Castiel needs that sense of security more than he does right now.

They've been eating in silence for a few minutes when Castiel pushes his plate away and takes a breath.

“You asked me why I got kicked off the bus,” he says, and stops. Dean puts down his burger and wipes his hands on his jeans, listening intently. “There was... an altercation. A man offered me some literature on what he called a spiritual retreat, but I... I knew. I knew the moment he handed it to me that it was exactly the sort of place I'd just managed to get away from.”

Dean can feel his mouth growing dry at the implication, and as he waits for Castiel to finish explaining he can't help but notice how his eyes are fixed on his hands, rolling restlessly together. He kind of wants to take hold of them, steady them with his own. He ignores the impulse.

“That's why I'm on my own,” Castiel says, quieter now, “why I can't drive. Why I have barely three dollars left in my pocket. Why I was ever in need of accepting a ride from a stranger.” He looks up, something like fear and pain and melancholy in his eyes. “I have nowhere to go but back to the Elysian Kin.”

“The Elysian—” Dean's mouth falls open, and he leans forward, dropping his voice, “as in give-us-all-your-worldly-possessions and live-in-a-compound Elysian Kin?”

Castiel nods. It's a small, jerky movement, and his eyes dart around like he's afraid he might be seen. Like someone is going to turn up to drag him back at any moment. Hell, maybe they will. That’s what Theo had been trying, after all. Dean forces out a breath.

“Jesus,” he says, “How long were you there?”

“Since I was ten years old.”

Dean's eyes widen. The question _how_ dies on his tongue, but Castiel answers it anyway.

“When I was nine, my dad was killed in a car accident, and my mom... she didn't have any other family besides me,” he says, dragging a napkin into his hands and pulling it apart, “after Dad's funeral, these people came to speak to her.”

“They were—”

“Kinsfolk,” Castiel says, nodding, “they visited the house, over and over for months. Helped her with things around the house, prayed with us, brought food... and then just before Christmas she sat me down in the living room and told me that we had been chosen. That was the word she used. Chosen. Like it was something special. Like we'd won something.”

He heaves out a breath, sinking a little into the peeling cushion as he talks.

“I remember being very excited at first, because she told me that we were going to be a part of a big family, and that there would be animals to look after and other children to be my brothers and sisters. It sounded wonderful. But...” he shakes his head, hands still twisting restlessly despite the paper being completely shredded, “but then we got to the ranch, and... and that's when I started to realize something was wrong.”

“What happened?” Dean asks.

“It sounds ridiculous, but I had these... I had these Superman pajamas,” Castiel says, a distant smile twisting his mouth up at one side, “they had this detachable cape on the back. My parents bought them for me not long before Dad's accident, and they were my favorite. And the first night we were at the ranch I asked Mom where she'd put them, and she told me that I didn't need them anymore.”

“They got left behind?”

“All my books, my toys, things I'd made at school—even photographs,” Castiel swallows, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, “everything. She said that I didn't need any of it. That we'd have our new family and we'd have God and that was all we needed.”

“You didn't even have a picture of your dad?”

Castiel shakes his head and rubs at his eyes with his hand as he looks out the window, and Dean feels sick.

“I hated it. Right away, I hated it. I missed my friends, and my house, and... I missed my mom. She was there but she wasn't the same. I was thirteen when she got sick, and when she died the year after, I found out that she'd made the kin my legal guardians. They had complete control.”

A waiter stops by with a jug of coke, topping up their drinks, and Dean nods to him in thanks. It's bizarre how normal everything is. How the rest of the diner's patrons are just going on eating their meals, laughing and talking and yelling at their kids to stop playing with their food. Dean feels like their table is an island, a separate world to the one around them. When the waiter finally walks away, he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and Castiel loosens his collar. Runs his hand through his already messy hair.

“The worst part," he goes on, not quite meeting Dean's eyes, "was school. It was... it wasn't about gaining knowledge. It was about being trained. Learning rules. There were a lot of rules. If there was no useful purpose for something it was deemed immoral and we weren't permitted to do it. There was no television. No toys. Boys weren't allowed to spend any time with girls, which I especially hated because the only other person who actually seemed to have a thought in her head outside of the kin was a girl named Anna. We'd sneak away sometimes, hide out in the barn and talk about what we'd do when we left the ranch. She wanted to be a pilot. It got difficult, though, when we got older. It wasn't worth the punishment.”

The skin under his left eye twitches a little on the word _punishment_ , and Dean has that urge to take his hand again. To try and soothe whatever nerves the memories are shaking loose.

“I tried to leave for the first time not long after I turned fifteen, but I only got as far as the road before Zachariah found me and brought me back. I've tried more times since then, more than I can count, but those who leave are a seen as a threat, so I've been closely monitored.”

“How did you get out?” Dean finally asks, and Castiel gives him a rueful smile.

“Luck,” he says simply, “I was tending to the bees, and Naomi, who was watching me... there must have been a hole in the mesh of her veil. She got stung. Right here.”

He points to his left eyelid.

“She was blinded, and... I should have made sure she was alright, but I knew I might not get another chance. So I ran. Climbed the fence. Almost got hit by a truck when I finally reached the highway, but the driver took pity on me and gave me a ride into town. He gave me seventeen dollars and dropped me at a shelter.”

Looking down, Castiel tugs at the front of his jacket.

“I got this suit there,” he says, “and the coat. They were very kind. But it was too close to the ranch. I left as soon as I could.”

“We have to do something,” Dean tells him, “I mean... what they're doing, Cas, what they did to you—it's illegal. You can go to the police, I'll go with you—”

“The police have been to the ranch before,” Castiel tells him, shaking his head, “after Anna got out a few years ago. She went to the police, and they came to inspect the ranch. But it did nothing. No one can prove anything.”

“You couldn't leave with them?”

“Zachariah saw them coming,” Castiel says, “he sent me and Theo out to harvest, and when we came back I found out that Levi had pretended to be me. Anna had told them I was being held against my will. Described me as being tall with dark hair and blue eyes, and Levi fit that description.”

With a heavy sigh, Dean slumps back against the seat and rubs his hands over his face.

“This is a lot,” he says.

“I know,” Castiel tells him, “and I understand if you'd rather we went our separate ways now.”

“Are you kidding? You've been through some serious crap, Cas. I'm not leaving you here.”

Dean flinches internally. Probably not a great thing to say to someone who's been controlled his entire life.

“I mean, it's obviously up to you. If you _want_ me to leave you here I will. But, yeah. You're more than welcome to stick with me.”

“You wouldn't mind?”

“Hell no. You're good company.”

Across the table, Castiel ducks his head, and there's a tinge of pink to his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Besides, the way I see it, you and me are kind of in the same boat."

"In what way?"

"I just mean, I've got zero plans right now. My future is a big vague question mark and I'm guessing yours is too," Dean shrugs, "I don't know, man, I just think it'd be less daunting to try and figure stuff out if there was someone in the passenger seat.”

Slowly, a hopeful smile breaks out on Castiel's face.

“I think you're right," he says, and with that Dean reaches over between the salt and pepper shakers to pull out the color-in kids menu. He plonks it down on the table with the map of the United States facing up and slides it over. Castiel looks at it with a frown, then up at Dean.

“First step is to pick a place."

"A place?"

"Anywhere you want to go."

Looking down at the map, Castiel traces over the states with the tip of his index finger.

"What's the second step?" he asks.

"That's the best part of being on the road," Dean says, picking up his burger, "we'll figure out what we're doing on the way.”


	4. Broken Blacktop

As the opening riff of some old Styx song rolls from the jukebox, Dean swipes his last curly fry through the ketchup, and Castiel draws a blue crayon circle around the coast of Texas. He slides the map across the table without a word.   
  
Dean dusts the salt from his fingers and picks it up. The smell of crayon wax is strong up close, and it stirs something nostalgic in the back of his mind. A vague, half-formed memory of a time before his life went to shit. Before the road and everything it represented. Before his dad lost his way. Before his mom died.  
  
He expels the memory with his breath, knowing that such thinking will only lead to another exhausted day of staring into space, and he can’t do that now. He’s got a friend to look out for.  
  
Over the creased edge of paper, he raises his brow.  
  
“Corpus Christi, huh?”  
  
Sitting rigid in his seat, Castiel nods. He swallows reflexively, the apple of his throat bobbing. Dean watches the motion before he drags his gaze back up to meet his eyes.  
  
“If that’s alright with you,” Castiel says.  
  
“Y’know, I was in Palo Alto less than a week ago and I never even touched the sand. I think I’m overdue for a trip to the beach.”  
  
“We were supposed to go there,” Castiel tells him, staring down at his empty plate. “My mother and I. Before.”  
  
“Then I guess you’re overdue, too,” Dean tells him, and the hint of a smile makes Castiel’s entire face soften, starting at the eyes where they crinkle at the corners, and Dean feels his own lips turning up in response. With his index finger, Dean taps on the bottom edge of Wyoming. “We’re pretty close to the border right now. It’ll take us maybe eight hours to drive through Colorado.”  
  
Castiel leans forward, tilting his head to look.  
“How can you tell?”  
  
“Lotta roadtrips,” Dean answers vaguely, and flags down the waitress to ask for the check. It’s seventeen dollars. As he pulls a twenty from his wallet, he thumbs through the remaining cash.   
  
There’s just under a hundred left, and after that’s gone he’ll be left with one credit card in the name of Keith Richards. By his count, he’s going to have to ditch it in a week or two. He’d really prefer not to have scammed cards at all after this one runs out.   
  
He can always pick up some cash-in-hand work at a farm or a construction site or one of the less reputable roadside bars he passes, and he can easily make a few hundred dollars hustling pool. And if worst comes to worst… well. There’s always a way.  
  
Hopefully he’ll figure out what he’s doing before he has to think about it, but no matter what, he’s going to need to spend a little first.   
  
For one thing, he’s out of toothpaste. He’s running low on deodorant. If Castiel is going to be sticking with him for long, and Dean truly hopes he will, the guy is going to need a change of clothes.  
  
“Come on,” Dean says, slapping the twenty down on the table as he stands. “If we hit the road soon, we should be able to make it into Texas before the day is out.”   
  
Castiel follows him out into the parking lot, and Dean walks straight past the Impala. He glances back when he notices Castiel faltering in his step.  
  
“Pit stop,” he says, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets as he walks backwards toward the road and the Walmart that stands on the other side of it. “C’mon.”  
  


* * *

  
  
As the automatic doors slide closed behind them, he rifles through his wallet and gestures toward the menswear department as he holds out the crumpled bills.  
  
“This should get you a couple of things,” he says. Castiel eyes the money warily.  
  
“Dean, this is very kind of you, but you’ve already--”  
  
“Nope, I’m being completely selfish. We’ve got two more days on the road at least, and you reek.”  
  
Castiel blanches, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Shit, now I’ve offended him, Dean thinks. He gives a sheepish grin and pushes the money toward him again.  
  
“Come on, man. You need a change of clothes, that’s all. Just take the cash. It’s not like I really earned it.”  
  
Castiel raises an eyebrow at that, and Dean immediately feels stupid for letting his guard down. Before he can say anything else, though, the expression fades, and Castiel takes the money.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“I’m gonna grab some road snacks and stuff,” Dean tells him, nodding toward the food. “Meet you back at the car?”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
Dean watches him walk off toward the racks of cheap t-shirts, sticking out like a sore thumb in his ill-fitting suit, but even under the bright lights of the department store he’s gorgeous. There’s just something about him. The way he carries himself, maybe. How he smiles with his eyes, small and subtle. How he speaks.  
  
As Castiel pauses beside the t-shirts, running the soft cotton between his fingers, Dean things about touching those hands and feels his chest constrict.  
  
“Shit,” he mutters, and hastily turns to make his way toward the grocery department, feeling like the worst kind of creep.  
  
Nothing can happen between them, he knows that. Not while he’s the one putting a roof over Castiel’s head, buying him food, buying him clothes. He might not be as well-versed in the law as his brother, but he’s got common sense and a conscience, and he knows that making a move on someone when they might feel coerced is at least twelve kinds of not okay.  
  
Even if that weren’t the case, the guy's been through hell. The last thing he needs now is Dean breathing down his neck.  
  
What he does need is a friend. Dean can be that.  
  
He just needs to push back all this damn interest first. All these unwelcome feelings that have been slowly building from simmer to boil ever since he picked Castiel up on the side of the road in Nevada.  
  
It’s with a heavy sigh that he scrubs his hand through his hair and forces his attention to settle on the task at hand.   
  
When he finally makes his way out into the parking lot, Castiel is already waiting by the car.   
  
He must have changed in the restroom, because now he’s wearing canvas shoes, a blue zip up Superman hoodie, and dark jeans, his hands tucked into the pockets while an overstuffed plastic bag hangs from his elbow.  
  
Somehow, he looks even better than before.  
  
“Clark Kent, eat your heart out,” Dean says with a grin as he approaches, and Castiel smiles so wide his gums show.  
  
“It was on the clearance rack. I couldn’t resist.”  
  
“Reclaim that childhood,” Dean laughs, and Castiel’s grin falters.  
  
“It’s not too childish, is it?” he asks, smoothing his hand down over the bright fabric, and Dean shakes his head. He pats him on the shoulder before heading around to the driver’s side.  
  
“You look good, Cas.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Just callin’ it like I see it, man.”  
  
“No, not for the compliment--though I do appreciate that. Just. Thank you. For everything.”  
  
Dean has never quite known how to respond to gratitude. He shrugs and chews on his thumbnail before pulling open the door.  
  
“Don’t mention it,” he says.  
  


* * *

  
  
In the passenger seat, Castiel has one of Dean’s creased old road maps unfolded across his knees. He ditched the hoodie shortly after they crossed over into Colorado, and every now and then Dean catches himself sneaking glances over at his surprisingly muscled arms, tan skin standing out against his cheap white v-neck.  
  
Somewhere along the way, he’d put an old mixtape into the deck, and it’s just after four in the afternoon when Castiel picks up the cassette case to read Dean’s messy print.  
  
He runs a finger along the titles until he gives up, looking over at Dean.  
  
“Which one is this?”  
  
“No Class,” Dean says, and Castiel nods until the vocals start, then wrinkles his nose with a noise of disapproval. Dean frowns. “You did not just ugh at Motörhead.”  
  
“I liked it just fine until the yelling started.”  
  
“Lemmy Kilmister is not just yelling,” Dean insists, affronted, and Castiel tosses the case back into the box on the floor. “He’s a goddamn living legend.”  
  
“He sounds like the living dead.”  
  
“I don’t think I want to be friends anymore.”  
  
At that, to Dean’s surprise, Castiel actually laughs.   
  
It’s a gruff bark of a thing that tumbles from him all at once, and he claps a hand over his mouth as though shocked by the sound before it happens again, and then he’s practically giggling, as much as a man with a voice as deep as his can giggle. Dean watches him as often as the road will allow, feeling something light and buoyant in his chest that doesn’t fade even when Castiel’s laughter stops.  
  
“You alright there?” he asks with a grin.  
  
“Sorry,” Castiel says, wiping at his tear-streaked cheeks. “I just--ah.”  
  
He shakes his head, still smiling.  
  
“What?” Dean asks.  
  
“It’s been a long time since I’ve really been able to joke with anyone,” he says with a happy sigh, leaning his head against the seat as he looks over at Dean.  
  
With a crooked smile, Dean shoots him a sidelong glance.  
  
“Who said I was joking?”  
  
This time when Castiel laughs, he doesn’t seem so shocked. Their good spirits carry them on through the Colorado landscape, and the long road doesn’t seem so lonely.  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s past nine in the evening once they’ve cut across the corner of Oklahoma and made it into Texas, and they check in at the first motel they see. The sign claims that it is a four star establishment, but one side of the horseshoe-shaped building backs up to a gas station, and the other two are flanked by dusty fields, so Dean isn’t entirely convinced.  
  
Across the street, a bank of trucks and dusty cars fills the parking lot of a run-down bar and grill, and flickering sign out front advertises a dozen buffalo wings for seven ninety-nine.  
  
“Y’think they do takeout?” Dean wonders aloud, popping open the trunk to grab his duffel.  
  
“I hope so,” Castiel says with a wide yawn. The sound of him zipping up his hoodie is loud in the night-time quiet. “I don’t think I could deal with a lot of people tonight. I just want to shower and sleep.”  
  
Dean hums in agreement as he locks the car, and follows Castiel to their room.   
  
They’re at the far end, in a room backing on to one of the open fields. There’s a bug zapper hanging from the roof a few paces from their door. Two flies lose their lives while Castiel coaxes the key into the sticky lock.  
  
“That right there is the mark of a four-star motel,” Dean says, pointing at the blue zapper, and nods seriously when Castiel looks back at him. “Ambiance.”  
  
Castiel laughs, rolling his eyes, and stumbles forward when he finally works the door open. When they step inside they’re hit with the smell of cheap citrus cleaning products.   
  
Thankfully, the room less painful on the eyes than the place they stayed last night, but it’s still a dump. Par for the course, really. Dean dumps his things on the chair by the door and digs his wallet out of his jeans pocket.  
  
“So what’dya say, wings and beer?”  
  
“That sounds good,” Castiel says, but he yawns halfway through, glancing toward the bathroom. “If you don’t mind, though--”  
  
“Go for it,” Dean says, waving his hand as he picks up their key. “Back soon.”  
  
When he returns soon after, he finds a damp-haired Castiel perched on one of the beds in plaid boxer shorts and a gray t-shirt from the cheap multipack he bought at Walmart, staring intently at the TV screen. The picture quality is terrible, but even through the excessive static Dean recognizes the scene immediately.  
  
“Oh man, I haven’t seen E.T. in years,” he says, unloading the wings and cornbread onto the table before pulling two beers free from their cardboard carrier.  
  
“I desperately wanted to see it,” Castiel tells him, eyes still glued to the screen, and Dean looks up from where he’s crouched beside the mini-fridge, attempting to wedge the remaining four bottles into too small a space. “But my parents worried it would frighten me.”  
  
Knees popping as he pushes back to his feet, Dean crosses the room to stand beside him, grabs the remote control from it’s place by his knee, and changes the station. Eliot and his bicycle disappear, replaced by a commercial for legal aid, and Castiel looks up at him with startled eyes. He reaches for the remote.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“For one,” Dean says, holding the remote out of his reach and pointing at the screen with his other hand, “you were about to be hit with a massive spoiler. For two, if you’ve seriously been waiting for twenty-something years to see this movie, you shouldn’t start watching it halfway through, and you sure as hell shouldn’t watch it through six feet of TV snow.”  
  
He flips through another few stations, finally settling on some sitcom re-run that they can ignore while they eat.  
  
“We’ll watch it from the start some other time,” he says without thinking, and tosses the remote back down onto the mattress where it lands with a bounce. “I’ll even make popcorn.”  
  
“Some other time,” Castiel echoes. When Dean looks down at him he’s met with such a soft, pleased smile that his fingertips tingle with the need to reach out and touch. He shakes it off, heading back to the table.  
  
Clearing his throat, he tries to ignore the fluttering in his stomach by turning his attention fully onto the food.   
  
“C’mon,” he says gruffly, prying open the plastic container of cheese dressing. “Wings are going cold.”  
  


* * *

  
  
With a full belly and the sound of raucous canned laughter bursting from the TV set, Dean leans back in his chair and half watches the fuzzy shape of an as-yet-unidentified sitcom husband smacking his thumb with a hammer. Across the table, Castiel fidgets like a kid who sat on an anthill.  
  
Dean glances over at him and raises his brow, just in time for him to finally speak.  
  
“Can I ask you something?”  
  
“Shoot,” Dean says.  
  
“I was just wondering what you meant earlier,” Castiel begins carefully, “when you said you didn’t really earn the money?”  
  
“Oh.”   
  
Sheepish, Dean avoids looking at him, choosing instead to study the pitifully small folder of brochures supplied by motel management. “Kinda thought I’d gotten away with that one.”  
  
Fiddling with the edge of the folder, Dean pulls it a little closer and flips through the pages. Apparently, there are no local attractions in Stratford, Texas. The nearest attraction, as it turns out, is forty minutes back the way they’d come, where the town of Boise City in Oklahoma has a small museum of local history and a life-sized model of a brontosaurus.  
  
Actually, it’s an Apatosaurus, Sam’s voice pipes up in the back of his mind, and Dean wonders if his smartass brother would be able to think up a way for him to avoid this conversation. He probably could. Dean probably could, too, if he’s being honest with himself. He just doesn’t particularly want to. The thought of lying to Castiel puts a bad taste in his mouth.  
  
Maybe it’s because of everything Castiel told him today. Everything he’s been through, or just the fact that he actually trusted Dean enough to tell him about it. Lying to him now would be a dick move, and Dean’s sick of being the bad guy.  
  
But he’s been silent too long, and Castiel pushes back from the table like he’s going to stand. Like he’s going to go to sleep or leave the room entirely.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he says stiffly, the tips of his fingers pressing against the table. “That was rude of me.”  
  
“No, it’s… it’s fine,” Dean assures him. “You told me your tragic backstory. It’s only fair I share mine.”  
  
“Really, you don’t have to tell me.”  
  
“I know,” Dean says, draining the last dregs of his beer as he gets to his feet. “You want another?”  
  
Castiel shakes his head, lifting his bottle to show it’s still half full, and Dean tosses out his empty one. The bottles in the fridge rattle when he yanks open the door.   
  
The twist top digs into his palm and pings against the side of the trash can.  
  
“I didn’t exactly have a white-picket-fence upbringing,” he starts, leaning back against the fridge and looking at Castiel across the room. “Actually, I didn’t have any kind of fence. Mostly I grew up on the road. Me, my dad, my brother. Driving all over the country.”  
  
At the table, Castiel rests his chin on his fist, frowning up at Dean. Behind him, the thin white curtain glows blue, and the flickering light from the bug zapper makes the edges of his hair glow blue-white and ethereal, like an angel in a painting. Maybe he’ll be just as forgiving as angels are supposed to be, Dean tells himself. Or maybe he’ll be just as righteous.  
  
Dean takes a deep pull from the bottle and forces his gaze away from Castiel’s eyes.  
  
“Did your dad have to travel for work?”  
  
Dean snorts and shakes his head.  
  
“I guess you could put it that way. Hell, that’s what we used to tell people when we’d be in one town long enough to go to school. But, uh… he didn’t… he was--well,” crossing back to the table, Dean slumps back into his seat. Taps his thumbnail against the glass and chews on the inside of his cheek before giving up on a sugar-coated version of the truth. “There ain’t really a nice way of putting it. He was a thief.”  
  
For a split second, Castiel’s eyes widen infinitesimally, but Dean still catches it. His stomach sinks.  
  
“He wasn’t always,” he hurries to explain. “It was just that when my mom died, he kinda lost himself. He got heavy into drinking, then gambling, and he ended up oweing this one guy, Alistair, a lot of money. And I mean a lot.”  
  
On a long exhale, Dean slumps back in his seat, picking idly at the label on his bottle.  
  
“I was only like five at the time, so I didn’t find out any of the details until a long time later, but when he couldn’t pay up, Alistair put him to work. Dad was a mechanic by trade, so at first he just had him working in a chop shop, taking apart stolen cars. But then I guess he changed the terms, and Dad had to start stealing them, too.”   
  
“That’s terrible, Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean chances a look up to see his furrowed brow. He chews on the inside of his cheek, rubbing at the back of his neck with the palm of his hand, cold from gripping the bottle.  
  
“Anyway, that only lasted about six months until Alistair wanted him to do something else. Dad never told me what it was, but… I mean what could it have been, right? Kidnapping? Worse?” Dean scrubs at his face, his eyes prickling, and forces himself to keep going. “So he loaded Sammy and me into the car and we got the hell out of dodge.”  
  
It’s the first time he’s told anyone any of this in years. The second time he’s told anyone at all. He just hopes it works out better than it did with Cassie, who called the cops on him. It’s been years since that happened. It still stings.  
  
“But Alistair caught on, somehow. I guess he had people watching the house, or… something. I don’t know. But his goons tracked us. Sammy was barely out of diapers, and we were living off stolen credit cards in sketchy motel rooms while Dad kept a loaded gun on his bedside table.”  
  
With a glance around the room, Dean takes in the bland walls and the faded paintings of non-descript fields and sees his entire childhood. Places like this never felt like home but they’re still the only home he ever had. His beer is growing warm in his hands. He rolls the bottle between his palms.  
  
“It was fucked. The whole… the whole situation. Eventually we lost them, but by then Dad was so paranoid that he wouldn’t settle down in one place for much longer than a month. He couldn’t get an honest job ‘cause he hadn’t worked one in so long, so he just kept stealing. Moved on from cars to burglary because it was easier to pawn jewellery and electronics than to try and find a chop shop in an unfamiliar place without risking Alistair finding us. And then--”  
  
He cuts himself off, something sour twisting in his gut, making his mouth dry and his hands unsteady. He knows it’s fear. Fear that Castiel will leave once he knows the whole story. Fear that he’ll be alone again.  
  
More than that, though, it’s fear that Castiel won’t want to be around him. That he won’t get to hear that hard-won laugh again, see that smile.  
  
He pushes past it.   
  
Why not? he thinks. The story’s almost over.  
  
“And then by the time I was thirteen, he had me working alongside him.”  
  
Castiel’s shocked intake of breath is loud, and Dean can’t bring himself to look. He doesn’t know what he’ll find if he meets his eyes. Pity, disgust--whatever it is, he’s scared of it.  
  
“I was the perfect accomplice,” he continues, gaze fixed on his hands. “He’d use me as a distraction, or as a lookout, and then… then I eventually convinced him that a lot of the jobs would be easier if he sent me in instead. I was smaller. I could fit through windows, air vents, all that shit.”  
  
Grinding his teeth together, Dean presses his eyes closed and shakes his head.  
  
“Shit, Cas. I remember I used to think to myself, man my dad is cool. Like he was fuckin’ Batman or something. I wanted to be just like him, you know? And it went on for years. I dropped out of highschool, not that I really went in the first place, and we just kept working.”  
  
It all sounds so foolish now, but he figures that’s hindsight. It’s all so much clearer with a little distance. The people on the train can’t see that their path is going to intersect with the truck until it’s right on top of them. Doesn’t matter how obvious it is to everyone watching from the hillside.  
  
“But when was like twenty-two, I finally started to wake up to how fucked it all was--which I know sounds stupid, I should have figured it out a hell of a lot sooner--but I wanted out. Thing was, I didn’t know how. Dad sure as hell didn’t know how. And anyway, by then he liked it. He brought in other guys sometimes, and he didn’t give a crap about them. Didn’t matter if one of the guys got hurt or caught so long as we made the score. He’d basically gone from this guy who was doing what he had to do in a shitty situation, to being… Someone else. Someone more like Alistair.”  
  
There’s a scar on his hand, a pink line along the edge of his left thumb left over from one of those almost-botched jobs. He rubs at it, feeling the change in texture, the badly-healed skin where the dental-floss stitches hadn’t been done quite right. The numbness that’s never quite gone away above the knuckle.  
  
“Then I had this idea. See, I thought if we could make one big score, we could get out. We could have enough money to just… to stop. To just be people again. We could move to South Dakota, and Dad could retire, and I could get my GED, get a real job, maybe meet someone, and… I had this whole idea, y’know? Of what our lives could be if we just had the money to kick it off. So I scoped out this jewellery store in Reno, and I came up with a plan.”  
  
Dean still remembers the look on John’s face when he’d laid it all out. The unmasked cold humor he found in Dean’s attempt to steer them back to normalcy. How he’d said that a grunt like Dean was better off following orders than trying to come up with them himself. The memory still makes him feel sick.  
  
“He told me it was a stupid idea, and we fought over it. Really fought. And I… I said some... I said some really horrible shit to him. And then I went out, and I stayed out, and when I got back to the motel the next morning I found him stone cold on the bathroom floor.”  
  
When Dean finally forces himself to look up, Castiel’s eyes are wide and wet, his mouth turned down at the edges. It’s too much. Dean looks away. Back at his hands. At the table beneath them.  
  
“Doctors said it was a heart attack,” he says, and hates how his voice wobbles, “most likely brought on by stress.”  
  
“I’m so sorry, Dean.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean shrugs, flexing his fingers against the table top. “So… by then I was twenty-eight with no real skills outside picking locks and throwing punches, and...  I mean. It’s been two years, and I’ve just kind of been drifting. Scamming credit cards and hustling pool and…” Dean swallows the rest of the sentence. “And doing what it takes to get by. I mean, I hate it, but I don’t know what else to do.”  
  
“What about your brother?”  
  
The question is the last he expected to hear. Back when he told any of this to Cassie, she’d told him to get out of her apartment the second he stopped talking.   
  
“Sam’s good, man,” Dean tells him, attempting a smile that Castiel meets with a small one of his own. “He got out years ago, went to live with our uncle Bobby when he was fifteen. Has his own place now, steady job… whole nine.”  
  
“That’s good.”  
  
“Yeah, he was the smart one. I, uh…” Dean exhales loudly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Honestly, I should’ve left when he did. But I couldn’t just leave my dad on his own, y’know? He needed me. He needed backup. He could get kind of reckless with the tunnel vision sometimes.”  
  
“Taking care of him wasn’t your responsibility.”  
  
“Yeah, it was,” Dean says bluntly, and sucks in a startled breath when Castiel reaches out to settle his hand over Dean’s where it rests on the table. It’s warm. Welcome.   
  
Swallowing, Dean stares down at Castiel’s tanned fingers, at his thumb as it strokes once over Dean’s knuckles before he pulls away.  
  
“It shouldn’t have been.”  
  



End file.
